Echoes of What Might Have Been
by Evil Cosmic Triplets
Summary: In the aftermath of Tara's death, Jax contemplates what might have been had he been someone different. Coda to, "A Mother's Work" (season six finale)


**Disclaimer:** I do not own the characters of this work of fiction, and no profit, monetary or otherwise, is being made through the writing of this.

**A/N:** Written for trope bingo round three, square - au:alternative professions. This one came to me out of nowhere. It was not what I had intended to write when I sat down to write tonight - I wanted to write something happy and fluffy. This is the opposite of that. It just happened. Contains spoilers for season six finale - "A Mother's Work". I guess this could be considered a coda, of sorts.

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"What would you have been if you hadn't done this with your life?" Tara's voice is a ghost – light and ethereal. An echo of a past that wasn't; a future that would never be.

"A lawyer or businessman. Maybe…maybe a teacher?" His voice is rough from disuse after he'd finally stopped screaming, weeping, at the insensibility of what had happened.

He's sitting on the floor, one knee drawn up to his chest, one leg stretched out in front of him.

He's smoking a cigarette. The smoke swirling around his head like a thick, white cloud.

He pictures himself as a teacher. Standing in front of a bunch of snot-nosed kids with greasy hair and skin. Pimples. Dealing with never-ending dramas of breakups and heartaches.

He laughs.

It's a dry, broken sound, ends in a strangled sob which cuts off abruptly.

He's broken.

His dead wife laughs, slaps him on the arm. Smiles.

"You'd have made a good teacher." Senseless words, placating.

He shakes his head. Takes a drag on his cigarette, flicks the ashes toward his bare feet.

It's absurd. The idea of him being a teacher.

The smile on Tara's lips falters, and there's blood.

So much blood that Jax is drowning in it.

Drowning in blood.

And it's funny, because he's spilled blood.

Killed.

Had blood spattered over his face, on his lips.

It tastes like pennies, rusted metal.

Smells sickly sweet.

Stains skin.

Clothing.

Makes his skin itch. Gets stuck. And he can't wash it off.

He can't wash it off, and it burns. Burns his lungs. Makes his heart hurt.

It was pooled on the floor. Tara's blood.

Already cooling. Thick. Sticky. It burned his fingers, his eyes. Made his stomach twist.

If he'd have been a teacher, lawyer, businessman, Tara'd be alive.

He'd come home, briefcase in hand, tugging at his tie, craving a scotch on the rocks, or carting student papers that needed to be graded beneath his left arm.

He'd toe his shoes off, kiss Tara on the cheek. She'd ask him about his day, and he'd complain about his pain-in-the-ass boss, or how disrespectful kids were nowadays.

They'd eat dinner, together, as a family. His sons would tell him about their days. How much fun they had.

Later, after he'd finished grading papers – shaking his head at the ignorance of youth and inane answers that just didn't make sense, proved kids hadn't been listening to him – he'd go up to bed, to Tara. Her warmth a loving embrace in and of itself.

She'd been so pale. Her blood so red and slick, he'd slipped on it, fell to his knees. Wept.

He'd kissed her.

She was cold, and he'd taken her remaining warmth.

Tasted her blood, like a vampire, dining on life, except he'd wanted to give it back to her.

Wanted to offer his life in exchange for hers. Bleed for her. Make her warm and whole again.

Make things right.

She was the mother of his boys.

His wife.

The woman he'd loved since he was a teen. Never stopped loving even when he'd been a dick and had slept around. Never would stop loving.

He misses her. Misses the feel of her skin – soft, supple. The scent of her. Antiseptic and bleach if she'd been working. Something flowery and vanilla if she'd had a day or two off. Baby powder.

He misses it.

Misses her.

And he can't breathe.

The cigarette burns his fingers and he drops it. Clutches at his chest, because his heart literally aches, feels like it is going to explode from the pain of losing her. Losing his life.

"I love you." Tara's voice is a ghost, the touch of her lips, her fingertips brushing hair out of his face– all of it is a ghost, and he's damned.

"I could've been a teacher," Jax says, and the words burn his throat like acid.

Her blood is a pool around his knees.

It's cooling.

She's dying. Dead.

Haunting him with her sad smiles and her grim acceptance of their life together.

What it had been.

What it could've been.

Might've been, had he listened to his heart.

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Reviews would be greatly appreciated. Thanks


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